


a dance with desire

by OccasionalAvenger



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Book compliant, F/M, Slow Burn, jaime is truly...stupid, other people may show up who knows
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-21
Updated: 2019-10-31
Packaged: 2020-12-27 17:24:32
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 11,390
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21122498
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/OccasionalAvenger/pseuds/OccasionalAvenger
Summary: Jaime turned to Brienne, who handed him his shirt. “How do I look?” he asked, taking the shirt but waiting to put it on. “Like a common stonemason, I expect, only a marginally better reader. I expect you wouldn’t recognize me in a crowd anymore, my lady.Brienne sniffed but sounded fond when she spoke. “I have seen you bald, bare, and covered in shit. I should think I would know your face anywhere."





	1. Chapter 1

Jaime’s first thought when he saw the troop of riders approaching was that they had to be a bunch of bloody fools to be riding north in the winter.

His second thought, as the riders slowed to a trot and their appearances became more clear, was that he was going to discover very quickly exactly how well he would fare in a real battle with his left hand.

The men were plainly of southern stock. Their mounts were leggy, and their cloaks were blue, although well-lined with fur. _Tully men_, thought Jaime, _fleeing from my handiwork at Riverrun_. The one in front, an older fellow with brown hair and a wild beard the color of Valyrian steel, shouted an order to his men as they drew closer.

Jaime exchanged a glance with Brienne and mouthed _fish_. She nodded and the two of them reigned to a halt. Their party was exposed here on this part of the road, only peat and frost for miles. The wench’s mare stirred uneasily at his shoulder, perhaps picking up on Brienne’s own wariness.

“Six of them,” said Ser Hyle Hunt from behind.

Jaime glanced over his shoulder and found the younger knight standing in his stirrups to see over Brienne’s bulk. Beside him, Podrick Payne made to draw his sword.

“Not yet, Pod,” said Brienne. “We’ll only fight them if we must.”

From the looks of it, Jaime thought that was more than likely. The Tully men encircled them, hands already on their blades. Their breath puffed quickly in wintry air - they were itching for a fight. The greybeard walked his horse up to Brienne and Jaime.

“Well met, he said, voice like a blade scraped on gravel.

“Are we?” said Jaime. He made a show of looking around at the other riders. _Six_, he thought. _In my heyday I would have cut through them like so many leaves._

The old man smiled thinly. “One does not live as long as I have without caution on the Kingsroad, lad. I am called Aran. Perhaps you could tell me your names and where you travel.”

“Are you a doddering nursemaid?” said Hyle with a sneer. “I remember when a man could have ridden this road with a goose up his arse without being questioned by nosy old fish.”

“My name is Macie,” said Brienne quickly, shooting a glare at Hyle. “Forgive my friend, these are troubled times and our nerves wear thin.”

“I'm called Arthur,” said Jaime. The old man, Aran, looked at him with interest. A twinge ran down Jaime’s right arm, and he pursed his lips, glad he had been wise enough to conceal the golden hand that would have instantly marked him as the Kingslayer.

“I’m Trentan,” said Ser Hyle.

“Pod,” said Pod.

Jaime rolled his eyes. “We ride south to the Vale,” he said. Our business is our business, but I assure you we will all have a better day if we ride on in peace.”

“Are you king’s men?”

Jaime turned. The speaker looked to be the youngest of the lot. A weedy boy, with long, scraggly hair that rendered him feral. His eyes widened when Jaime looked at him, but he spoke fiercely. “We serve the Young Wolf, Robb, who was murdered by wretched Freys and vile Lannisters. Which king do you serve?”

“We serve no king but winter,” said Brienne. “It is winter that drives us to the shelter of the Vale. And we would gladly be on our way.”

Aran considered her. Jaime waited for him to curl his lip at her size, at her clothes, at the lurid web of scars that covered what had once been her cheek, but the old man merely looked pensive. Just as it seemed that he was ready to let them move on, the same young voice sounded again.

“That’s Jaime bloody Lannister.”

All eyes swung to Jaime. The boy to his left was staring at him, face reddening. Jaime eyed the shortsword on his hip.

“You flatter me, lad,” he said, “but I am no — ”

“I saw you. At the siege, I saw you.”

“Take off your glove,” said Aran. When Jaime made no move, the old man raised an eyebrow. “If you’ve nothing to hide, take off your glove.”

There was nothing for it. Jaime grit his teeth. Slowly, he removed his right glove, revealing the gold underneath.

The Tully men swore and surged forward, but Brienne was already swinging Oathkeeper in a devastating overhead arc towards Aran. The old man barely wrenched his mount out of the way in time to avoid being rent in two. He drew his own sword, wheeling around with a swipe at the throat of Brienne’s mare. Jaime just had time to see her jump clear of the dying beast before the battle overtook him.

Automatic as a bird flying south for the winter, he slid Widow’s Wail from its scabbard and turned to face the nearest enemy. It was the accursed boy, shouting and charging his palfrey straight towards Jaime as though he wielded a lance instead of a shortsword.

_ I’m not the fighter I used to be, but I’m not a bloody fool, either._

Jaime let him come and even with his weak left arm, was able to swat the clumsy blow aside. The boy blew past him. As he struggled to turn his horse around, Jaime reached out and smacked the beast hard on the rump with the flat of his blade. It shrieked in surprise and, rearing, threw the Tully boy from his saddle. Dimly, Jaime registered the sounds of fighting around him - he could make out Hyle’s snarled curses - but his vision narrowed completely to the shaken, unbalanced boy before him. He kicked Honor into a run, ready to trample his foe if necessary. He hadn’t killed since before Robb Stark locked him away to rot, and his sword was begging for blood. The wench had done all the dirty work with the Brotherhood. Not this time.

The Tully boy scrambled to his feet barely in time to parry Jaime’s wild blow, but in doing so he lost his grip on the blade and ended up with a slash across the shoulder for his trouble. He cried out, and Jaime raised Widow’s Wail for the killing strike...only to lower it in surprise when a twin sword sprouted from the boy’s chest.

Brienne pulled Oathkeeper free, letting her victim fall with a sickening thud. As the red faded from Jaime’s vision, he realized the sounds of battle had quieted. He looked at Brienne. “That one was mine.”

The wench nearly smiled, stooping to wipe the blood off her blade with the boy’s tunic. “Perhaps next time you won’t be so slow about it.”

Jaime glared. He sheathed Widow’s Wail and swung down from Honor’s back. The air reeked of blood, steaming in the frigid air. Brienne was half covered in it from the throat of her own dead horse. Jaime spotted Hyle, who must have been relatively unscathed, chasing down a gray mare whose dead rider still dangled from his stirrups. A horse for Brienne to ride. The others had scattered, terrified by the screech of steel on steel and the reek of the dead riders who littered the road around Jaime’s feet.

“All right, Pod?” he asked.

The boy had a shallow cut down his cheek and another on his upper arm, but he nodded. Clearly buzzing from the fight, he bounced on his toes. “Ser Hyle and I cut down three of them,” he told Jaime.

“Podrick did a man’s work,” said Hyle. He approached with Brienne, the gray mare in hand. “Suppose all that bloody drilling had to pay off sometime.”

“We should search these bodies and go,” said Brienne. Jaime scanned her hulking frame, searching for injury and finding none. “Would that we could bury them, but I dare not linger long on this part of the road. The wolves will be along soon.”

She had the right of it. All through the Riverlands the man-eating pack had haunted their steps. Hyle even swore to have seen the monstrous she-wolf who led them, the thought of which made Jaime shudder. If it was possible for a direwolf to personally want a man dead, then Jaime was certainly the one with the most to fear.

He and Podrick picked over the bodies for their coin and rations. Jaime donned one of the fur cloaks and the others did the same. On one corpse he discovered a well-balanced dagger that he handed to Pod, and a splendid pair of fur-lined gloves a bit too big for Jaime’s own hands, but that he pocketed anyway.

“S-ser?” Podrick was standing near Aran’s body, slashed nearly in half by Brienne’s blade. The boy had a small bottle of something in his hand. “Perhaps you could use this for your hair.” It was brown dye, Jaime saw, the substance that had colored Aran’s hair brown while his beard grew steel gray.

Jaime cocked an eyebrow at Podrick. “Are you telling me my hair is graying, boy?”

The squire flushed. “N-no, Ser, only, I think the Tully man recognized you by your hair is all.”

Jaime touched a hand to his head. Perhaps it was true that his golden hair did give him a sort of obviously..._Lannister_ look. _Cersei would hate that_, he thought, picturing himself with commoner-brown hair.

“He’s right,” said Brienne. She was standing with Ser Hyle, inspecting a bloody gash to the back of his head that Jaime hadn’t seen. “It won’t do to have you recognized every time we meet someone on the road. I will help you when we get to the inn.”

Jaime set his jaw, watching Brienne’s hands in Hyle’s hair. “Fine,” he said.

They reached the inn that Hyle had recalled just as the sun was beginning to set. Even here in the Riverlands, the days were already growing shorter. Brienne determined that they should approach the inn in separate groups under the guise of not knowing one another. Jaime argued that arriving separately would hardly do any good if anyone was looking for a Lannister and a great beast of a woman, but she was set. Hyle and Podrick rode into town first, while Jaime and Brienne waited shivering in the woods until the wench decided sufficient time had passed.

Hyle and Pod were eating silently in the front room when Jaime pushed open the door to the inn. He looked briefly in their direction before stepping aside to let Brienne do the talking. She approached the stocky young woman behind the counter and placed half a handful of silver before her.

“A room for the night, and whatever food you have, if you please.”

“I please.” The young woman quickly scooped the silver off the bar and handed it to a girl of no more than one-and-ten, whom Jaime hadn’t seen when he entered. The girl cast a curious look at Jaime, then ran off into a back room, presumably to hide the money away.

He and Brienne spoke little over their meager supper. Thinking with annoyance of the amount of silver Brienne had forked over, Jaime wanted to demand more of the innkeep than thin onion stew, but Brienne forbade it.

“It is likely all they have,” she insisted. “We’ll not ask more than they can give, not with four of us here and winter on its way.”

“It’s an inn,” Jaime grumbled. He looked around to make sure the innkeep hadn’t heard Brienne refer to them as a party of four, but the young woman had disappeared into the back. “It occurs to me,” he said in a low voice, “that I have just violated my oath to never again take up arms against the Tullys.”

The wench cocked her head. “You took Riverrun from the Tullys.”

“Without bloodshed.”

“I suppose.” Brienne slurped the last of her soup in a most off-putting way and fixed Jaime with sincere blue eyes. “Those men were looking for a fight, Jaime. They were angry and they saw a chance to — to avenge their home. You did what any man would have done, we all did.”

“You don’t sound like yourself, wench. Have you rethought your stance on oaths after you shoved a sword through Catelyn Stark’s back?”

Jaime wanted to take the words back as soon as he said them. Brienne’s eyes filled with tears, a miserable frown snatching down the corners of her mouth. “That wasn’t Lady Catelyn,” she whispered. “That was something...”

“I know, Brienne,” Jaime soothed quickly. “Forgive me, wench, that was unkind. I am only a bitter cripple who can’t keep a promise to save his life.”

Brienne swiped at her eyes. “That’s why I killed the boy before you could. I remembered your oath.”

_ Even when I did not._ Jaime stared at her. “You —”

She stood. “Come, let us do something about your hair.”

They climbed the creaky stairs together and found their room at the end of a rather welcoming little hallway. The innkeep had brought up a basin of water for a bath and left a candle burning by the bedside. Straw poked visibly out of the mattress on the floor, and branches tapped rather ominously against the window, but Jaime had seen far worse inns. He shucked his leathers and shirt as quickly as one hand would allow and stretched in relief. Long days of riding with boiled leather on a man’s back would leave him stiffer than an untanned hide.

Jaime rummaged through the saddlebags they had carried inside until he found the cursed bottle of dye. “Here, wench,” he said, handing it to Brienne once she too had removed her armor. He grinned. “Make me ugly, if you can.”

She sat Jaime on the floor in front of the bed and, sitting behind him, began to work the brown dye into his hair and beard. Jaime closed his eyes at the scrape of her fingers against his scalp, his jaw. “Gods, Brienne,” he mumbled, “that feels almost better than having a hand again.”

“This isn’t supposed to be fun,” said Brienne, though she chuckled at Jaime’s groans. “I think that Ser Hyle rather wants to see you made plain as a commoner.”

“Bugger Ser Hyle. Actually, don’t. But you take my meaning. He’s only jealous that good looks don’t run in whatever shitheap of a house he crawled from."

“He has proved a loyal companion.”

“Men are loyal to cunts and coin,” said Jaime, “and I can guess which one Hyle hopes to win from you.”

Brienne snorted and gave Jaime’s hair a sharp tug. “And you, a Lannister, I suppose you’re loyal to coin?”

“Ah, I am loyal to love, my lady. Don’t laugh, we both know it has been my downfall before.”

They sat in silence after that while the wench finished rubbing the dye into Jaime’s hair. When she finished, Jaime sighed at the absence of her fingers.

“We’ll wash it in the basin, said Brienne. “That will get rid of the extra.” So she bent him over and dunked Jaime’s head into the water, making him splutter and cough at the cold. It reminded him of another time, when she had forced his head under in the creek. _What a fight that was_. Jaime stirred just at the thought.

When the extra dye was washed out and Brienne deemed his hair sufficiently dry, Jaime bent to view himself in the lone mirror hung near the door. He could hear the wench cursing as she dumped the soiled water out the window, but Jaime was too captivated by how different he looked from the man who left Kings Landing to turn around. He did look remarkably plain, at least by Lannister standards. The gold and grey of his hair was gone, replaced by a forgettable brown, the color of dry dirt.

Jaime turned to Brienne, who handed him his shirt. “How do I look?” he asked, taking the shirt but waiting to put it on. “Like a common stonemason, I expect, only a marginally better reader. I expect you wouldn’t recognize me in a crowd anymore, my lady."

Brienne sniffed but sounded fond when she spoke. “I have seen you bald, bare, and covered in shit. I should think I would know your face anywhere. Now put on your shirt and fetch a new basin of water, if you can carry it.”

“Wait a minute.” Jaime dug in the pocket of his breeches until he found the gloves he had stowed away earlier. He handed them to Brienne. “Too big for me, my lady, but your monstrous paws ought to fit. It’s very cold where we’re going.”

The wench took the gloves without a word and inspected the thick fur lining. “These are lovely, Jaime,” she said softly.

“A dead man’s gift.” Jaime threw a sharp smile her way, and took his time pulling on his shirt before lugging the empty basin down the stairs and back into the front room. The young woman was still there, eating a quiet supper with the girl whom Jaime assumed was her daughter.

“Trouble you for some more water? M’lady was a bit more travel-stained than one basin could handle.”

The innkeep sighed. “I’ll have to go to the _well_,” she said, as though Jaime should know where that was. “It’s cold.”

“If it’s too much - ”

“No, I’ll go,” she said, and rolled her eyes. “But I won’t be happy about it. Stay here, Sanya.”

“She is happy about it,” said the little girl behind the counter when her mother had gone. Her thin brown hair, the same color as Jaime’s, was neatly braided and resting on her shoulder. “She fancies the baker’s boy and they live right near the well. But she doesn’t want me to know because she thinks it will make me sad about Father.”

Jaime settled into one of the bar seats. “And what happened to Father?”

“Dead at the Whispering Wood,” said Sanya sadly. “Or so we think, anyway. That was the last Mother heard of him.”

“King Robb’s man?”

“The King in the North,” said Sanya. She sounded proud. “My father said the Tullys were honorable men, and their king was good enough for him. He fought in other battles, too, before he died.” She fixed Jaime with the same curious look from earlier. “Have you fought in many battles?”

Jaime smiled. “Some.”

“Was it hard? Mother says hurting people is hard, and we shouldn’t do it unless we have to.”

“Hurting people who deserve it isn’t so hard,” Jaime said. He thought of Brienne and the Tully boy. _She kept my oath for me._

“Have you hurt people who didn’t deserve it before?” asked Sanya.

“Once I did. No longer.”

“That’s good, true knights don’t hurt people who are innocent.”

Jaime blinked at her in surprise. “I am no knight.”

“Oh,” said the girl with a shrug. “You look like one.”


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> bi jaime rights

He basked in the setting sun to the sound of steel screeching against steel. If Jaime closed his eyes and found that sweet, distant place inside, he could imagine himself back in the thick of the fight, a real fight, not that scrap with the Tully men that had left his blade unwetted. In his mind, he did not see the Whispering Wood or the Smiling Knight, but a featureless battlefield thronging with faceless opponents. Jaime cut through them easier than slashing silk off a blushing maiden. How they ran before him! He always did like a chase. Their blood was sweet on his lips and his right hand was not a hand but an instrument of the Stranger himself.

“Fix your feet, Podrick. If you stumble and break your skull on a rock then we’ll have camped an hour early for nothing.”

Jamie opened his eyes. That was the wench, her voice cracking across the frosty clearing clearly as the clang of steel. Standing before her, Podrick hurriedly rearranged his feet into a neater stance. He scarcely had time to raise his sword again before Brienne’s next blow came arcing towards his neck.

Podrick was not bad at all for being mostly green. He had come a long way even in the two weeks since Jaime joined their small company. Tyrion had said he’d killed Ser Mandon Moore during the Battle of the Blackwater, but you’d never know it to watch him take blow after blow from the flat of Brienne’s blade. An hour in the morning and an hour in the evening she battered him. It must have been weary work after a full day’s riding, made no easier by Jaime’s cheerful unsolicited advice to them both, and Hyle’s grumbling about how they could have made the Eyrie by now without stopping early each night.

He was always grumbling about something, Ser Hyle.

Their camp for the night looked like all their other camps for the night, an unremarkable grove far enough off the road to avoid their fire being seen. The cold was harsh and the gusting wind harsher. Jaime had happily discovered, however, a neat little nook at the base of an ancient pine that allowed him to catch the dying rays of the sun while staying out of the wind.

“It’s bloody freezing,” said Hyle, who had not been so lucky. He huddled nearby under his Tully-blue cloak. “And bloody boring.” The wind howled then, wrenching the hood off his head and exposing the lank chestnut hair underneath. “And _ bloody _ freezing!”

“Want to fuck?” drawled Jaime, only half joking. Watching the wench wield that great Valyrian steel blade did more for his cock than his mind approved of. And it_ was _cold. “Or perhaps you could spar with Podrick instead, seeing as you whine every evening about how much it deeply bores you to watch from the side. You must_ hate _tourneys, Ser Hyle. I imagine you do quite a lot of watching at those.”

Hyle shot him a disgusted look. “Less than you now these days, Kingslayer.”

Jaime gritted his teeth but masked it with a smile. He got to his feet and yanked Hyle with him, calling out to Brienne. “Wench! Take a respite. Ser Hyle Hunt would like to try his hand against young Pod.”

Brienne lowered Oathkeeper, her cheeks flushed almost Lannister red from exertion and cold. _ I’ll bet she’s red as a sow all the way down, _ thought Jaime, amused. 

“Would you, Ser Hyle?” she said. “I have told Podrick of late that he would do well to spar with another.”

Jaime nodded seriously. “The boy’s skills must not go to rust and ruin sparring against such as you.”

“Thank you, Ser Hyle,” said Brienne, either ignoring or not catching his jape. She flashed the other knight a grateful look that made Jaime’s mouth twist. As though he hadn’t been the one who caught her a break.

Hyle dipped his head gallantly, casting Jaime a sly look as he did so. He drew his sword and invited Podrick forth. Jaime made to sulk off back to his nook, but a word from Brienne halted him. 

“You ought to be sparring, too.”

He had dreaded this conversation. “Spare me, wench. I have given up enough to go on this fool’s errand, don’t deprive me of my dignity.”

“You said that you and Ilyn Payne -”

“A mute.”

Brienne furrowed her brow. She cast a glance over to where Hyle was crowing taunts at Podrick, then looked at Jaime with incredulity. “You think I would tell Ser Hyle of your struggles? Jaime, it does not matter what he thinks. Where we are going, we will like as not have to fight, and we’ll need your help.” She sniffed as though annoyed, but Jaime caught the hurt in her eyes. “And you should know that I would not be so unkind as to humiliate you in front of the others.”

_ It isn’t their judgment I fear. _

In spite of himself, Jaime nodded. “All right, wench. Let us see how you fare against the best one-handed swordsman in Westeros.”

If any small part of him had harbored a hope that he might make a decent showing against Brienne, the wench quickly bashed it out of him. Jaime had not been beaten so soundly since his childhood on the Rock. Watching her only against little Podrick, he had forgotten her speed, her strength. She thrashed him with that great flashing blade, and Jaime knew that if their duels had been true ones, he would have been reduced to no more than a collection of ribbons for the wench to wear around her wrist at the next tourney. 

It was all Jaime could do to keep his sword in hand, but the tiny part of him that always went away during a fight had the awareness to be grateful that Brienne had led them a ways out of sight of their camp. If Ser Hyle saw this embarrassment he was like to ascend higher than the Seven themselves.

“_Enough_,” he hissed finally, after Brienne leveled her blade at his throat for the fifth time. He was on his knees and panting. “I think you’ve proved your point.”

Brienne stepped back, Oathkeeper still in hand. She frowned. “Get up.” 

Jaime glared. “But you are so much prettier from down here.”

She whacked him across his good shoulder with the flat of her blade. Off balance, Jaime went stumbling back into the dirt.

“You forget which side you’re fighting on,” said Brienne, voice cold. “Your left arm gets lazy, and you flail with every blow like it is your last. But that isn’t the worst of it. The worst is that you fight like a man who expects to lose. I did not judge you the type to behave as such.”

“Oh you _ dream _ of that fight in the Riverlands, don’t you?” sneered Jaime. He scrambled to his feet, seething that the great cow of a wench still looked down on him. “You yearn to go back to that first moment when you realized you had finally found a match, a man who could handle Big Brienne. Your heart must break now to realize that he’s become a cripple who needs you to keep his oaths. Your blood will never sing for another as it did for him.” 

He brandished his stump in Brienne’s face. To the wench’s credit, she did not flinch. “I told you I did not want to fight, but you had to know, didn’t you?” He spat at her feet and slammed Widow’s Widow back into its scabbard. “Some other knight will have to rescue the sweet Maid of Tarth from now on.”

“You did that as you are, Jaime.” Brienne held his eyes for a moment. The blue of them sucked the anger right out of his chest. 

“I did, didn’t I?” He sagged suddenly, and sat against a rotting log. “Perhaps next time you see Red Ronnet Connington you should ask him to smile for you. It will be quite a sight with all the teeth I knocked out of his cunt mouth.”

Brienne stilled. “What happened?” What did you do?

“I’ve just told you the most interesting part of the story.” Jaime shrugged. “We had the misfortune of meeting at Harrenhal. He told me of your betrothal, which rather displeased me, so I cracked him across the jaw with this.” He held up his golden hand.

Brienne stared at him. In the dying light, he could not read her eyes. Then she sheathed her sword and came slowly to sit next to Jaime. “He was the worst of them.”

“Next time you meet, he’ll blow you kisses, or face my wrath.” Jaime smiled. “Or yours, I suppose.”

For a moment it seemed that Brienne was going to return his smile, but then a shadow flickered over her face. She looked down at her hands. “Word will have gotten out about what you did to him. People will talk. They talk of you.”

“How do you mean?”

Brienne shot him a look. “I know you heard what the Brotherhood called me.”

“Kingslayer’s Whore.”

“Yes.” 

“And what of it? It isn’t true, is it? I’ll wager you’ve been called worse, my lady.”

“I would have thought that you of all people would understand how a name can hurt even if it isn’t true. Maybe especially then.” Brienne’s voice was soft. “I never told you how Ser Hyle and I met.”

That was not where Jaime had anticipated the conversation going. He could still hear the clang of Hyle and Podrick’s blades in the distance. From time to time Podrick’s laughter came floating through the trees.

“Tell me.”

“It was in Renly’s camp. He was Randyll Tarly’s man, popular with all the younger knights. He — he courted me for a time. He gave me books and other nice things and even sparred with me one morning. None of the others did that.”

“The others?”

“I later learned that there had been a bet.” Brienne’s voice hardened. She flexed her fingers as though wishing she still had a sword in hand. “The pot was to go to the first man who could deflower the Maid of Tarth. Ser Hyle was in on it. When Renly announced there was to be a melee, I saw my chance at revenge. I battered them all and enjoyed every blow.”

Jaime narrowed his eyes. Red battle lust threatened at the edges of his vision. “Yet you let him travel with us.” 

“He apologized,” said Brienne, though she sounded uncertain. “He — before the Brotherhood captured us he asked for my hand.”

Jaime shot to his feet, whirling to face her. “Surely you denied him? He only wants your island.”

“Do you think I don’t know that?” 

“Tell me you didn't say yes.”

“Of course not. I said I would consider it. It is the best offer I’m like to get, but…” Brienne closed her eyes briefly. “Brienne the Beauty,” she said helplessly. “It isn’t true and he knew it.”

“I’ll beat his face to a ruin.” Jaime spun on his heel and began striding back towards their camp, hand on his sword. Brienne caught him before he’d gone five steps.

“Say nothing of this,” she pleaded, grasping Jaime by the shoulder with one enormous hand. She was wearing the gloves he had given her. “It will fix nothing, Jaime. I already dealt him the punishment he deserved.”

Jaime took a deep breath. Brienne’s eyes were filled with tears. On an impulse, he reached up and wiped them away, letting his hand linger on her ruined cheek for an extra moment before letting it drop.

“As you wish, my lady.” 

In the distance, wolves howled.

He woke the next morning frozen to the bone and aching from head to toe. Jaime had not been so sore since he’d fallen down a ravine as a boy. They ate a sorry breakfast in the cold, just what remained of a rabbit that Podrick had flushed up the day before and a dried apple each. Jaime and Hyle watered and readied the horses while Brienne drilled Podrick. 

“The wench leave you love-bites under your breeches, Kingslayer?” Hyle smirked, watching Jaime stiffly stretch his legs to prepare for riding.

Jaime smiled placidly. He imagined how Hyle’s head would look mounted on a pike. “Perhaps you should come see for yourself.”

The air on the Kingsroad smelled of frost and mud. Even the sun itself seemed to be yielding to winter. It shone weakly above them, the color of a dead fish behind the clouds. Jaime and Brienne rode side by side behind Hyle and Podrick, backs hunched against the wind. The wench talked as little as he remembered, and for once, Jaime was glad for it. Their scrap in the woods was behind them now, but he couldn’t get the business with Hyle out of his mind.

As they rode, he stared at the back of the other knight’s head and tried glaring holes through it as though his gaze were a lance. _ Bile Hunt, _ he thought. _ Ser Vile Hunt_. _ Ser Vile Cunt. _The audacity of the man to propose to Brienne after proving that he thought no more highly of her than a common whore! Dour and ugly she may be, but the wench was a highborn heiress; she deserved courting, and gifts, and sweet promises. Jaime had half a mind to find her a decent match from the Rock himself if he hadn’t been certain that she would take the betrothal as anything but an insult after Lady Stark’s death at the Red Wedding.

“_Jaime_,” said Brienne, breaking into his thoughts. “Look. Snow.”

So it was. Jaime remembered that Brienne had been delirious with fever when last it snowed in the Riverlands. He drew Honor to a halt and watched as fat, delicate flakes fell softly around them. If this kept up, they would be sleeping on wet ground tonight. He looked at Brienne, breath catching in his throat at her unfettered delight. The wench’s face was flushed with a rare broad smile that made the pink scar on her cheek seize up like a crushed spider. The snow was sticking to her eyelashes. 

Those eyes. They were the purest blue Jaime had ever seen, wide with awe and reflecting the pale sun, for why would such eyes need any light but their own? Hyle and Podrick had reigned up, too, heads tilted back to gaze at the falling flakes. _ Fools, _ thought Jaime. _ You are missing the true wonder. _

The snowfall continued into the evening, and by the time Brienne called a halt, a finger’s breadth of white covered the ground. 

“There isn’t much food left,” commented Podrick as he and Jaime unloaded the saddlebags. “Do you think we’ll make it to the Vale, Ser?”

“For Sansa Stark’s sake, I hope we do.” Jaime frowned. The boy was right, and the snow did not bode well for their chances of finding much more game along the way.

Brienne must have had the same thought. Leaving Hyle to stoke the fledgling fire, she came over and caught Jaime’s attention with a light touch on the shoulder. “I saw a pond a short ways back. It may be that some fish still live. Will you be all right while I’m gone?”

Jaime widened his eyes at Podrick. “Without our warrior maiden? I fear what may become of us, my lady.”

The boy giggled, which was worth the black look Brienne shot at Jaime as she strode away towards the road. Podrick reminded Jaime faintly of Tommen, though the two were little alike beyond their sweet dispositions. Jaime thought often of Tommen these days. They had no news from Kings Landing here on the road. The last he’d heard, his uncle Kevan Lannister was dead, and no one knew who was the proper regent. _ If Cersei survives her trial, there will be no one left between her and my son. _

Suddenly uneasy, he thumbed the pommel of Widow’s Wail and tried distracting himself by watching Hyle and Podrick setting up to spar. Hyle was an insufferable teacher by Jaime’s estimation. He kept up a running stream of clever, cutting comments that ground Jaime’s nerves, though they seemed to make Pod laugh. Even worse, his swordplay was decent at best, certainly unworthy of the preening arrogance that Jaime imagined he could see radiating off that smug grin. Barristan Selmy would have butchered him like a yearling calf. 

“Not bad, Pod,” said Hyle as the boy executed a sweet little parry-and-twist. “We’ll make a knight out of you yet.

“Why must every boy be a knight?” grumbled Jaime. “Not half it’s carved out to be, in truth.” For some reason the idea of Hyle knighting Podrick made him grind his teeth.

“Perhaps you want him to be a foot-soldier, then? Those always live the longest. Those under your command at the Whispering Wood certainly fared well.”

“Careful,” said Jaime. 

Hyle cocked his head, smiling. Jaime could see the rope scar on his neck. “You’re used to people dying for you, aren’t you, Kingslayer? Young Pod and I could have hanged on the Brotherhood’s noose and it would have been no more trouble to you than dirt under your fingernails. Lucky for us, the swordswench is so taken with you… What was it they called her?”

“Pod,” said Jaime calmly. “Run along now.”

“Ser..”

“Help me remember, Pod,” said Hyle. His eyes never left Jaime’s. “Kingslayer’s Wench.” He laughed. “No, Kingslayer’s Whore, that was it. A bit heavy-handed if you ask me. Poor Brienne the Beauty, ready to die for —"

Jaime smashed the pommel of Widow’s Wail across his head. Hyle dropped like a stone, sword falling with a thud from his hand, and the last thing Jaime saw was red blood on white snow.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As always, comments are lovely and keep me motivated to write more!


	3. Chapter 3

They had been on the road for a little over a month when Podrick’s piebald rounsey caught its foot between two snow-covered rocks and had to have its throat slit on the spot. The sudden _ crack _ and subsequent shriek broke into Jaime’s spirited retelling of the time he and Addam Marbrand had cornered a boar behind a waterfall. Brienne feigned indifference to the tale, but she smiled at all the right parts when she thought Jaime couldn't see. They both whirled at the noise from behind them. Jaime leaped from Honor’s back just in time to pull Pod out of reach of his mare’s thrashing hooves. The animal's leg was snapped clean just above the fetlock. 

Brienne held the beast’s head still while Hyle, who had not spoken to Jaime since their brawl, drew his dagger and quickly slit its throat. 

Jaime patted Pod’s shoulder awkwardly while the boy sniffled. “Don’t watch,” he said, thinking of miserable young Tommen that day outside the sept and wishing he could have told his son the same. 

“Her name was Spots,” said Podrick sadly, opening his eyes as the horse ceased struggling.

“Ah,” said Jaime. “One of a kind.” At his shoulder, Honor snuffled nervously at the scent of blood. Jaime looked at him. _ This is why you don’t name horses. _

They butchered poor Spots where she lay and left the carcass for the wolves. Hyle’s chestnut mare was carrying the fewest saddlebags, so he and Podrick rode double at the front of their little column. Jaime watched them with concern. So close to the Vale, the snows had grown heavier each day. The horses were up to their knees with it, and Jaime knew that it was only a matter of time before they lost another mount.

He drew back to ride alongside Brienne. “We’ll need to buy the boy another horse. Hyle’s won’t last long carrying double the weight in this snow.”

“Pod hardly weighs double.” Brienne chewed her lower lip with those mule-like teeth. “We’ll press on.”

“We are at least two weeks from the Bloody Gate, perhaps more if the weather worsens. We’ll not make it there if we have to travel on foot.”

“Nobody’s traveling on foot.” But she nodded reluctantly. “There is a small town, nameless, on the road ahead of us. Two days, perhaps a day and a half if we ride hard. I had not planned on stopping when we are so close, but…”

“If Sansa Stark is truly in the Vale, I doubt if a night’s delay will make a difference in our search. No one is taking her anywhere in this weather. Only bloody fools like us would brave these mountains in the winter, and Littlefinger is no fool.”

Brienne did not smile. “Lady Sansa _is_ at the Vale,” she insisted, as though Jaime had set out to challenge her. “I can feel it.”

“So you have said. Perhaps you wouldn’t be such stale company if you felt other things from time to time. There are greater pleasures in life than keeping oaths and swinging a blade, my lady. Mayhaps I’ll show you sometime.” Jaime grinned, then grinned even bigger when the wench said stiffly, “I can take care of my own pleasures, thank you.”

He kicked Honor into a trot before she could realize what she had said and batter him for it.

Brienne had been right about the town. They reached it the following night, a handful of shops and homes twinkling at the base of a mountain. The yellow firelight certainly made the whole place look more inviting from a distance, Jaime thought as the four of them rode down the main street. The ice-worn gray buildings had clearly been built for winter, with their squat frames and sloping roofs. He could see no color, no vibrant banners or stained glass, like one could find decorating the streets of Lannisport. Even the people themselves seemed to have succumbed to winter. They huddled on doorsteps or in alleyways, cloaked in all gray, reminding Jaime of the stone figures Tyrion played with as a child.

“Stables,” said Hyle, pointing. The sight of his smashed nose made Jaime smile, as it always did. The cuts and bruises he had dealt the other knight had only recently faded. Unfortunately, the ones Brienne had given Jaime afterward had been nearly as slow to heal. 

They made plans to meet at the inn after the horse had been bought. Jaime handed over his still-fat purse of gold to Hyle and Brienne and warned them not to go wasting what remained of his inheritance. 

Having little desire to spend any more time than necessary in what looked to be a decidedly unpromising inn, Jaime led Podrick over to what passed for a tavern in this rubbish heap. It was just as gray as the rest of the place, but Jaime liked the smell of it. A few men, locals by the looks of them, glanced up as they entered, but returned to their drinks upon seeing no more than a common traveler and his son.

“Ale,” said Jaime to the tavern girl who sidled over to serve them. He cast Podrick an appraising look. “And one for the boy as well.”

“For me?” asked Podrick.

“Say nothing to the wench.” The serving girl paused. “Not you.”

They sipped their drinks in silence. In truth, the ale tasted like old piss, but Jaime pretended to enjoy it while Pod grimaced his way down the glass. When Jaime had taken his last swallow, he beckoned for the serving girl to attend him again. With a sort of removed pleasure, he noted that she was more than happy to do so. “Another, if it please m’lady. And one for you, too. Join us.”

Podrick shot Jaime a wide-eyed look from behind a screen of straight black hair. Brienne had told Jaime that he thought it made him look more like a knight.“S-ser…”

“Settle down, Pod. I only want to hear what news we may have missed on the road.”

The tavern girl was called Mylah, and as Jaime had noticed, she was delighted to be invited to their table. He plied her with questions about the town, the harvest, and how such a pretty girl came to work at a tavern such as this. The girl was a ready talker, and touched Jaime’s arm often. He kept his right hand tucked firmly against his body.

“I hear Petyr Baelish is Lord Protectorate of the Vale,” Jaime said when the conversation had gone on long enough. “Those of us in Kings Landing were remiss when he disappeared so soon after the king’s death. In such troubled times, a mind such as his would have been of much use at court. You hear a lot about such a man in a city like that, though nothing about this bastard daughter of his.”

“Oh, he was here long before the king died,” said Mycah.

Jaime frowned, exchanging a glance with Podrick. “M’lady it was some time ago that King Joffrey -”

“Oh, you mean that one.” Mylah nodded. “The last one, yes, that was around when Lord Baelish and his daughter arrived.”

A sickness welled at the back of Jaime’s throat. “Mylah, we have been on the road for some time,” he croaked. “King Tommen…”

“You mean you have not heard? King Tommen died in the fire at the Great Sept, along with the Rose Queen. Even in the Vale, we know this.”

Jaime gripped the table so hard with his left hand that he thought the wood might splinter. _ It should splinter, _ he thought. _ The walls should crumble around us and the mountains with them_. “Cersei,” he managed. “Cersei Lannister, what became of her?”

“She is the queen, now. The only queen.” Mylah shook her head, apparently oblivious to Podrick’s white face and Jaime’s tight breathing. “She was not in the Great Sept that day. My brother in the Eyrie heard that King Tommen was meant to be with her, but he escaped to be with his wife at her trial. It is all so tragically romantic.”

“F-father?” said Podrick, tugging on Jaime’s sleeve. “Perhaps we should go.”

Jaime managed only a nod. He tossed Mylah the only coins he had on his person and stumbled towards the door like a man who had drunk a barrel of ale rather than a glass and a half. The cold outside hit them with all the force of a war hammer. Tears torn free by the wind threatened to freeze Jaime’s eyelids shut instantly. He scrubbed at them, waving Podrick off when the boy tried to pull him towards the inn.

“I will meet you,” he said. “Tell...tell Lady Brienne and Ser Hyle the news.”

Ignoring Podrick’s protests, Jaime wandered off in the first direction he chose, not caring where he ended up, just knowing that he had to_ go_. He walked blindly through the streets, unsure if the roiling in his stomach was rage or grief or both. He could not say how much time passed. Eventually, he found himself in a dank alleyway littered with abandoned wooden boxes and blocks of snow and ice that people had carried off the street. Jaime sat down on a box and gazed up at the black sky until the moon above him emerged from the clouds.

“Jaime?” It was Brienne, casting a monstrous shadow at Jaime’s feet. He could not find it in himself to be surprised or to send her away.

“Wench.”

She came hesitantly into his Jaime’s dark little corner, and when he did not sneer or spit, she draped a spare cloak around his shoulders. Jaime shuddered at the sudden warmth and looked up to meet Brienne’s eyes as she settled herself on a box next to him. 

“I suppose Podrick told you.” His voice was rough. Perhaps he had been crying.

“He did. I’m sorry, Jaime.”

“So is everyone else, with my sweet sister on the Iron Throne.” Jaime laughed mirthlessly. “I suppose Tommen was never going to last. He was a good boy. A good son.”

“Your son.”

“My son,” Jaime agreed. “He finally acted against his mother, and this is where it got him. I’m sure that pleases Cersei in some vile way.”

Brienne frowned, breath puffing in the night air. “You don’t think the queen was responsible?”

“I know she was responsible, Brienne. I _ feel _ it, as you say. Only my sister would defy the gods and the Tyrells in one fell swoop.” He shook his head. “Who knows what will happen if Myrcella tries to claim the throne now. Cersei would never have her harmed intentionally, but she has won her game, and I doubt if she has any plans to be unseated.” Jaime rubbed an arm over his face. "I didn't even know the boy."

Brienne made a sound as though she were going to speak, but she did not. Instead, she took Jaime’s hand. A simple gesture, as though she had done it a thousand times and would do it a thousand times more. “I know...I know that your son did not belong to you, truly. But you can still love him. Love his memory, and what might have been, if the world were not so cruel.”

Jaime smiled sadly. “Then you no longer believe the world is a song.”

“I suppose not.” Brienne ducked her head, hair shining nearly white under the moon. Jaime felt the warmth of her skin and realized that she had taken her glove off to hold his hand. “The world may not be a song, but we can still sing about what we choose. The people we love and the people we hope to become.”

“And if we can be no more than we are now? If the people we love are not worthy of song?”

Brienne watched him carefully. “Your sister.”

“I love her, still,” whispered Jaime. “Even after this. I wish I had heeded her plea in the Riverlands, gone back to Kings Landing to die for her. With her. Tommen would still live, and I would not have failed in my duty yet again.” 

The wench said nothing. Jaime squeezed his eyes shut, and when he opened them again the world was blurry. He shook himself. “That was a lie. I love her...but I am glad that I left. I am glad. I am a bad man, Brienne, but you knew that. How many have died for my crimes?”

“I know well what you have done,” said Brienne slowly. “Your cruelties and the mistakes you have made. But, Jaime,” she squeezed his hand. “I know something of this. Loving the wrong person is not the crime of a bad man. I don’t even think it is a mistake. All any of us can do is what feels right in our hearts.”

And so Jaime kissed her. He kissed her to forget, and to remember, but mostly because he wanted to. Her lips were cool and dry against his, stiff at first with surprise. But she met him, softening to his touch and gripping his hand so hard it hurt. Jaime sighed against her mouth, hot all over. The cold was gone, the alley was gone; for all he knew or cared, they could have been sinking beneath the Narrow Sea. 

“Brienne,” Jaime murmured, pulling back just enough. Her hand was in his hair. _ Brown hair, _ he thought stupidly. “Wench. Let us go back to the inn. Let us go to bed.”

Brienne exhaled a puff of warm breath in his face. She disentangled her hand from Jaime’s hair and sat back, a curious expression on her flushed face. “You are hurt,” she said finally. “You are grieving. Jaime, I - I would not lie with you while you think of another.” 

“She is not the one I want.”

“And yet you know of whom I speak.” Brienne inhaled deeply, looking suddenly troubled. “All women look the same in the dark. And it is dark, Jaime.”

“I know what you look like, wench.” 

“You are not_ listening_,” Brienne got to her feet. “You say you don’t want your sister, but I am not so sure that I am what you wish for in her place.”

She spoke those words, and it clicked for Jaime. He remembered slogging through reading as a boy, puzzling out the backward letters until they turned into words that made sense. He always felt a fool when the sentence revealed itself to him. How did he not know what it said before? 

Jaime stood, determined to make his meaning clear. “Brienne, you are all I have wished for, for some time.” Even as he spoke the words he knew they were true. He recalled the dream under the weirwood, the way her name so often came unbidden to his lips. He had followed her in a farce, then followed her to what he thought to be his death. He would follow her again. 

“I cannot bear a lie from you, Jaime.” Brienne’s voice was soft. “After everything.”

“Then trust that it is not a lie.”

But she only shook her head, and when she walked away, Jaime thought that no night had ever been so cold.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A few things:
> 
> \- Finally looked at a map of Westeros and realized that the Vale is not south of Pennytree, no I will not be making changes  
\- I'm not really a show watcher, but the sept plot seems too big for d&d to have pulled it from nowhere  
\- Ned Stark would have made Pod watch  
\- The next chapter will likely be shorter, and the last. Just enough time for these fools to put things right.  
\- I know it's almost the 2020s, but would anyone be interested in a jb Hunger Games au? I might be cooking something up.
> 
> \- Comments are ALWAYS appreciated. Seriously, I haven't written for pleasure in a long time and only recently came back to it because history majors do a lot of writing that's not necessarily fulfilling, and I needed something for Me. Your kind words make my day!


	4. Chapter 4

Little else passed between them on the final trek to the Gates of the Moon. Jaime played at not caring; he teased Podrick and squabbled with Ser Hyle as usual, but any conversation he braved with Brienne felt tense as a bowstring. Jaime felt that way himself. Tommen was dead and with him the last bit of hope that Jaime had scarcely realized he still nurtured. Even the shadowcats that stalked their camps in the night only reminded him of the kittens that his son had so loved. _ Had I been there he might play with them still. _

For her part, Brienne did not seem to know exactly what she planned to do if Littlefinger’s bastard daughter did turn out to be Sansa Stark. Jaime suggested more than once that they take the girl to Winterfell, but the wench flatly refused. “If the Boltons defeated Stannis and the northern lords do not respect Lady Sansa’s claim, they’ll have our heads. If Stannis defeated the Boltons it will only have been with the help of the red woman. I’ll not take Lady Sansa into a murderer’s clutches.”

Privately, Jaime thought that if anyone was likely to respect a legitimate claim, it would be Stannis Baratheon, but he could not bring himself to argue. The wench hardly even looked at him these days. It almost would have been worth it to provoke her to anger just so he could see the blue of her eyes. 

Tyrion would have called Jaime an idiot, and like so many other times, he would have been right. He could almost hear his brother’s voice. _ Oh, you are a sad sot. You won the woman that everyone wants, yet now you long for the woman that no one does. _Jaime’s head always did gallop a few paces behind his heart.

Only Hyle entered the Gates of the Moon when they finally did arrive. Littlefinger would have been immediately suspicious at Jaime’s presence, and Brienne was hardly an unremarkable sight. “Luckily,” Jaime told Hyle, “your face is plenty forgettable.” They camped a few miles away from the castle walls, which Hyle reported were bustling with activity. Little Lord Robin’s court hunkering down for the winter. It took several days of tense exploration, but eventually, Hyle returned triumphantly.

“I saw a girl who looked a bit like you described,” he said, nodding shortly at Jaime. “Tall, pretty, Tully eyes. Her hair was brown, but I figured Lannister's is too. It was tricky, but I caught her alone, mentioned the name of the direwolf as we planned. I think she was suspicious of me, but your word from her mother was enough. She and I will sneak out of the castle in two days' time.”

Hyle returned a day later than promised, but when he did it was unquestionably Sansa Stark who accompanied him. Podrick, watching the road from up a tree, shouted their arrival. Jaime caught his breath when he saw the girl at Hyle’s side. He had never really believed that they would succeed. Hearing the sound, Brienne cast Jaime a look, and he nodded, taking a step forward. “It’s her.”

“It’s _ you_.” Sansa’s eyes were wide. She clutched at her cloak, stumbling back a step in the snow. “I knew I should not have come.”

Jaime held out his hands. The golden fixture was plain to see in the firelight. “Your mother released me from Riverrun on the condition that I return her daughters to safety. This is me honoring that promise.”

“My mother is dead,” Sansa said softly, “because of Lannisters like you.”

“Ser Jaime had nothing to do with your mother’s death, my lady.” Brienne stepped forward. “I know, I was with him when it happened.” Despite the snow, she knelt before the Stark girl’s feet. “My name is Brienne of Tarth. I was a sworn sword to your lady mother. She saved my life after Renly Baratheon’s murder.”

Sansa regarded her for a moment. Such a pretty girl. A woman more different from Brienne could hardly be found in the Seven Kingdoms. Jaime expected to see polite disgust on that proud young face, so like her mother’s, but Sansa’s eyes were unreadable. “Lots of people are sworn to lots of other people,” she said at last. “What do you want with me?”

“Whatever you need,” said Brienne, making Jaime wince. “My sword belongs to you, as it did to Lady Catelyn.” 

“Please, stand,” said Sansa, looking uncomfortable. Brienne did, moving back to join Jaime and Podrick. Sansa looked between them and Hyle. “Many people have made me promises before. I trusted some of them more than I trust the man who murdered my father’s men.” She narrowed her eyes at Jaime. “You are sneaking. You did not present yourselves to Lord Baelish. Tell me why I should trust you.”

“Perhaps I wouldn’t if I were you,” said Jaime. “But you have stayed alive where many would have died. Trust yourself, if not us.”

“Lady Brienne keeps her p-promises,” added Podrick, flushing as Sansa looked him over for the first time. “M’lady.”

“I know you,” said Sansa. “You’re Lord Tyrion’s squire. Why are you so far from home?”

Podrick hesitated. He glanced at Brienne, who gave him a nod. “I thought m’lord might be with you,” he said, hanging his head. “He left me behind after...”

“After Joffrey.” Sansa contemplated this a moment. As though forgetting that Jaime and the others were there, she tilted her head back, closing her eyes against a few drifting snowflakes. Jaime tried to discern any expression on her face, any indication of what she might be thinking, but it was like trying to read the eyes of a weirwood. She looked like anything but the frivolous girl he remembered from the journey to Kings Landing. _ Winter will make wolves of us all. _

At last, Sansa nodded. “I accept your service,” she told Brienne. “On two conditions.” She pointed to Jaime. “He goes. As soon as possible.”

Jaime only laughed, interrupting Brienne’s movement to speak. “I doubt Lord Baelish wants a Lannister prowling his court anyway.”

“That is my second condition,” said Sansa. “We aren’t going back to the Gates of the Moon. You will take me to Winterfell.”

“You’re mad,” snorted Hyle. “Winterfell is —”

“Held by Jon Snow.” Sansa’s eyes glinted. “Lord Baelish has kept it quiet here, even from me. But a little bird hears things. The Boltons are dead. Stannis too, though his men captured the castle. The Night’s Watch sends messages south pleading for help against the monsters beyond the Wall. Winter is here, and the dead are walking. Littlefinger doesn’t want me to know that my betrothal has been rendered meaningless. He fears that I’ll turn on him, leave him. But I know. I learned.” Sansa knelt and traced her fingertips lightly over the snow. She smiled a wolf’s smile. “I should like to see my brother again.”

Restocked with what food Hyle could swipe from the kitchens, they reversed course with Sansa in tow. It was slow riding. For all her poise, it was clear that the girl had never slept on the ground a day in her life, and certainly hadn’t ridden for any long stretch. She and Brienne spent the days side by side, hunched in deep conversation over the necks of their horses. Jaime had never seen the wench talk so much. He guessed that they spoke much of Catelyn Stark, or perhaps of how much they distrusted dirty, scheming Lannisters. Sansa took the news about her mother's revenant silently, but Jaime saw her weeping alone as she brushed down her horse one night. When she realized he was there, the tears vanished. Jaime only shrugged. He couldn’t blame the Stark girl for wanting nothing to do with him, but it still rankled to see Brienne so quickly abandon his company for hers. 

Every time the wench avoided his eyes, Jaime cursed himself for a thrice-blasted fool. As usual, he’d been too stupid, too rash, too_ late_. He had wanted things before. He had spent every accursed day in Robb Stark’s dungeon longing for Cersei, knowing his misery would end if he could only get back to her. But this with the wench was different. Everything Jaime wanted was here, riding a horse-length in front of him, sleeping just across the camp. 

When their little party gathered around the fire in the evenings, Sansa shared with them the news she had gleaned of the Others in the North. Dead men walking might have shocked Jaime once, but he had seen Catelyn Stark’s revenant with his own eyes, heard the rumors of Qyburn’s meddling in the Black Cells. Still, Sansa’s descriptions chilled his blood. He remembered the hapless wretch the Night’s Watch had sent to King’s Landing to warn them all. _ I am not the only fool in Westeros, just the biggest one. _Hyle and Podrick’s faces whitened at the tales, but Brienne only looked determined. If ever anyone was up to the task of fighting death itself it was the dumbest, ugliest, bravest woman in Westeros. 

Jaime had plenty of time on the road to figure out exactly what he planned to do with himself. Brienne had pledged her service to Sansa, and Podrick planned to follow them to Winterfell. Jaime couldn’t be bothered to care what Hyle Hunt did with himself but he suspected the other knight would take his leave when possible if he didn’t see a reward in his future. Sansa Stark wanted Jaime out of her sight, though he supposed she couldn’t exactly make him leave if he attached himself to the northern party — it wasn’t as though there was anyone else around to take her home.

He wrangled with it, cursed himself, cursed Brienne, cursed the winter snows and the fading sun and the living dead, but by the time they came to the crossroads, Jaime had made his decision. 

“Brienne,” he said that night when the fire was made and he could wait no longer. “Might we speak a moment? In private,” he added, as Hyle and Podrick each looked up. 

The wench looked startled, but she gave him a curt nod and rose from beside Sansa. Jaime followed her into the trees to a spot just barely in reach of the firelight, where the dark seemed the darkest. He noticed that her fingers gripped Oathkeeper’s hilt and hoped fervently that she wouldn’t feel compelled to use it.

“Well?” She watched him.

Jaime swallowed, nodded to himself. “I’ll be leaving you in the morning. I’ve been gone too long from Kings Landing and I expect there will be more than a few questions for the Lord Commander whose king died while he traipsed around the Riverlands. I mean to answer for myself, as best I can, anyway. Do my duty for once.”

“Will your sister not punish you?”

Jaime blinked. “Is that all you want to say to me, wench? After all this time?”

“What would you have me say?” Brienne looked suddenly hostile. “That I knew you would leave? That I wish you wouldn’t? Both are the truth.”

“How could you know that I wanted to leave?” Jaime snapped, anger rising to meet hers. 

“Your oath is fulfilled. You have no reason to stay.”

“You bloody idiot,” Jaime hissed. “I followed_ you_. Why must you fight me every step of the way? I mean to go to King's Landing and do my duty, to rally the Lannister army and bring them North for _ you_, so that you don’t die a frigid death, you stupid cow of a woman.”

Brienne opened her mouth to retort but closed it as Jaime’s words sank in. She frowned. “Your sister will never allow her army to fight for the Starks.”

“They will fight for me. For the living.” _ And I will fight for you, _he added silently. 

“Tell me you aren’t going back to her.” There were sudden tears in Brienne’s eyes. “You are almost free, Jaime, do you know that? I remember when you told me about the White Book. You have room left to write whatever you want.” 

Jaime crossed the space between them in two long strides, not caring if the others could see them from beside the fire. He grabbed Brienne’s hand where it gripped the hilt of Oathkeeper and held it firm. “If I could write whatever I wanted,” he said fiercely, “I would write of how I dragged the Maid of Tarth to the nearest sept so that we might wed and never be separated again. I would write of how I woke every morning to the sight of the loveliest eyes in Westeros and spent my evenings letting my love kiss the bruises she dealt me in the yard. But I cannot write that, nor would you allow it.” He tightened his fingers on hers. “I gave you this sword, gave you its name. Oathkeeper. Believe that, Brienne. Believe me.”

Tears fell freely from Brienne’s eyes now, but she spoke through them. “I will try, Jaime.” She kissed him, once, like a question and an answer, and when she stepped back her eyes were so beautiful that Jaime had to blind himself with the firelight lest he never leave.

Some time passed before they saw each other again.

Jaime thought of her often in those turbulent days. The King’s Guard was in tatters, the Small Council all but dissolved. Loras Tyrell, whose injuries at Dragonstone had been a Tyrell farce, spent his days locked away beneath the Keep. They had sparse contact with the North in Kings Landing. Cersei outright dismissed Jaime’s suggestion that they send their forces to Winterfell, and lapsed into a drunken, screaming fit when she discovered that he had been sending ravens north behind her back. After that Jaime was forbidden access to the rookery. 

Cersei would not speak of her trial. She would not speak of Tommen, nor of Myrcella, vanished in Dorne. When news of Targaryens crossing the Narrow Sea reached the Red Keep, Jaime knew all hope of a Lannister host marching north was lost. Many long nights he stayed awake, planning their defenses and wondering how to keep the crown on Cersei’s graying golden head. He stared one night at the flicker of candlelight on the blade of Widow’s Wail, thinking of its twin and remembering Brienne’s words. _ You are almost free, Jaime. _

Jaime rose, took a breath, and woke his squire. “Peck, ready my horse.”

He arrived at Winterfell several weeks later, caked in snow and with only Addam Marbrand, Peck, Loras Tyrell, and a few loyal others at his back. Many faces, old and new, greeted them inside the gates, but Jaime searched only for one. He heard her voice in the crowd before he saw her, and had barely a moment to turn before a great weight hit him squarely in the chest.

“Podrick?” he gasped, stumbling back with the force of the boy’s embrace. The squire scarcely seemed a boy anymore, having grown nearly a foot since Jaime last saw him, but when he spoke his voice still cracked with youth. 

“I said you would come back, Ser.” Podrick smiled, tossing the hair out of his eyes. “I told them.” He pulled away and said something else that Jaime didn’t hear, for there was Brienne — tall, tow-headed, and worse for the wear, but alive. He hadn’t been sure.

For a moment they only stared. Jaime spread his arms, managing a half-smile. “The whole Lannister host at my back,” he said wryly. He would have said something more, would have kept talking to hide the hammering of his heart, but any words were chased from his lips when Brienne took his face in her hands.

“You came back,” she whispered, gripping him fiercely, as though he might turn into mist at any moment. “I wasn’t...I couldn’t be sure.”

Jaime only smiled. “I heard of the world’s end and thought only of you.” He reached up and grasped one of her hands in his. “Do you believe me now, Brienne?”

“Now and always,” she murmured, and the snowflakes melted on their fingers.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Aaaaand that's all, folks! Your lovely words are appreciated as usual. Keep an eye out for the Hunger Games AU that I mentioned earlier - it is in the works!

**Author's Note:**

> Comments are appreciated! More to come...


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